


To Rest, Perchance to Breathe

by trustingHim17



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen, Guilty Holmes, Overwork, allergy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:33:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24315100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingHim17/pseuds/trustingHim17
Summary: Watson mentions in Memories that neither he nor Holmes wanted a repeat of the last time Holmes had decided Watson needed to slow down. What happened?
Comments: 6
Kudos: 30





	1. Prologue

Watson walked in the door, dropping his bag on his way to the table. His exhaustion was evident in every step, but the food beckoned stronger than his bed. He didn’t remember the last time he had eaten, and it had been over a week since he and Holmes had eaten at the same time, what with Holmes’ recent cases and Watson’s many patients.

They ate in silence. Holmes watched Watson more than he ate, his worry evident, but Watson was too focused on trying to stay awake to notice. He barely tasted what he put in his mouth, and he planned to collapse into bed as soon as he finished eating, if he even made it to his bed. He seriously considered claiming the settee, doubting Holmes could do anything that would keep him awake. He could probably sleep through an explosion, he was so exhausted.

They had barely eaten a few bites, however, when a frantic pounding on the door carried up from below. Mrs. Hudson’s light footsteps quickly climbed the stairs, and Watson hurriedly cleared his mouth.

“There’s a man at the door asking for you, Doctor,” she said.

“Send him somewhere else,” Holmes said behind him. “You need to rest.”

“You know I can’t do that, Holmes.” Gulping half a cup of cold coffee and shoving a final bite in his mouth with the speed of a war veteran, Watson grabbed his medical bag and was out the door before Holmes could voice an argument. “Don’t wait up for me,” he called as he closed the door, the arrival of a new patient waking him up marginally.

Glancing at the building storm outside, Holmes leaned back in his chair, the plate of food in front of him forgotten. The influenza epidemic had been ravaging London for nearly a month, and Watson hadn’t slept in two days—three, now, if this patient became a bedside vigil as well. Holmes himself frequently went without sleep for days at a time while on a case and rarely had a problem, but Watson had never had that ability. If his flatmate refused to slow down, the lack of sleep and regular meals would eventually catch up with him in a big way.

Watson would never turn away a patient, however, and Holmes knew he would never be able to convince the stubborn doctor to leave the city during such a virulent epidemic. Left to himself, Watson would run himself to the ground taking care of others, and Holmes could not allow that, not again. He opened the medical books the doctor had left on his desk. He knew enough about medicine to know the route he wanted to take, but it would be better to check all the options and avoid a problem later, especially with something as important as this.


	2. Chapter 2

Watson returned late the next morning, the dark circles under his eyes painfully displaying his lack of sleep. He dropped his medical bag in its place by his desk and made a determined grab for the pot of coffee. Holmes beat him there, however, holding the coffee high out of reach and offering a cup of tea instead.

“Give me the coffee, Holmes.”

“You need to rest,” Holmes chided, “not drink a pot of coffee. How many times have you admonished me for doing that?”

Watson rolled his eyes. “How many times have you listened?” he asked in return, still reaching for the coffee. “Now give it. I have to leave again in less than an hour.”

Holmes raised an eyebrow, keeping the pot well away from Watson’s grasping hand. “You have consumed five pots of coffee in as many days, which is quite a bit more than the food you have eaten, and you have been awake now for three days. Where are you going in an hour?”

Giving up retrieving the pot from Holmes’ higher reach, Watson started rummaging through his medical bag, checking his supplies as he searched for his appointment book.

“I have patients to check on, Holmes. You know this.” He dug through his desk for a moment, restocking his bag with a supply of fever-reducer he remembered placing there when his bag had been full.

The appointment book he set on the desktop disappeared, replaced with the steaming cup of tea.

“Let another doctor check on them. You will get sick yourself if you do not slow down, and no one wants to visit a sick doctor. That is just bad advertisement.”

Watson huffed a tired laugh. “I’ll be fine, Holmes. Give me that coffee, and do you have anything left over from breakfast?”

Holmes kept his grip on the pot. “No coffee,” he repeated. “Tea. And I left some toast and sausage on the table for you.”

Watson sighed but downed the toast, sipping the tea at intervals as he ate the sausage. The tea tasted strange next to the sausage, almost bitter, as if it had been left to steep too long. Coffee would have been better, but even cold sausage and bitter tea was better than nothing, and he was too tired to argue any further.

Knowing he would fall asleep if he sat down, especially since the tea was doing absolutely nothing to keep him awake, he stood at his desk as he took inventory of his medical supplies. He would need to stop at the pharmacy before continuing his rounds, and that always went better if he had a list at the ready.

Swallowing the last of the tea, he turned, meaning to find the appointment book Holmes had swiped a few minutes prior. The room spun around him, and he grabbed the desk to hold himself upright, reflexively shaking his head to clear the vertigo.

Holmes looked up from his chair by the fireplace, but Watson waved him off. He was just tired.

Spotting the appointment book on the nearby table, he reached out to grab it. His grasping hand missed as the room spun around him again, and he tried to brace himself on his desk to wait it out. A brief thought crossed his mind about why he suddenly felt so heavy, but the thought fled before he could ponder it.

He never saw the flicker of concern cross Holmes’ face, nor did he notice Holmes’ dive across the room. His knees buckled, and it was only Holmes’ arms appearing beneath him that prevented him from crashing to the floor.

Grunting with the exertion of catching the stockier doctor, Holmes carefully carried him across the room to the settee. The rapid collapse was unusual, but Holmes wrote that off to the doctor’s exhaustion. His friend would be furious when he woke, but a few hours of sleep would do wonders. He would sleep off the minimum dose soon enough, and another doctor could take over his rounds until then.

With the doctor resting on the settee, Holmes sent an Irregular with a note and a list of patients from Watson’s appointment book to Anstruther and busied himself with his chemistry set. It would keep him nearby and give him something to do until the doctor woke up.

Two hours later, however, he was growing worried. Watson hadn’t moved, and his color was off. He hoped the doctor wasn’t getting sick.

Setting his chemistry equipment aside and noting his current experiment’s progress, he moved to his friend’s side. Watson’s face looked flushed, but there was no fever, and he was still—too still. No matter how deeply asleep, Watson always twitched and moved at least a little.

Grabbing Watson’s wrist, he tabbed the pulse, beginning to wonder if he had put too much in the doctor’s tea. But, no, he had given less than the minimum dosage, and only in that one cup. He knew the symptoms of overdose, and Watson had none of them. His pulse was regular, if a bit slow, and while his color was off, his pale face was closer to a fever-flushed pink than the blue of an overdose.

That was when he realized Watson’s breathing was heavy, nearly labored, and much too slow.

What was going on? A small amount of sleeping powder should not have such effect, but these were not influenza symptoms, either. Propping the doctor up on several pillows to ease his breathing, Holmes shot up and down the stairs for the second time that day, bringing the rest of Watson’s medical books to the sitting room.

Frantically flipping through each one on the floor next to the settee, he searched for anything about sleeping powder and slow breathing, glancing up every few minutes.

Three of the textbooks were outdated. He found nothing more than the suggested dose ranges he already knew.

The fourth was a book he belatedly recognized as one Watson had received as a joke from a colleague: it was completely satire, combining extremely outdated treatments with some so ludicrous even a novice just entering medical school could tell they were fake. He tossed that book aside.

The fifth appeared useful at first. He found a line about slowed breathing, but it was in reference to an overdose, which he knew this was not.

He glanced up again as he reached for the last book. Propping him up had eased Watson’s breathing somewhat, but instead of just his face being flushed, now his neck was, as well.

Holmes looked closer. Even with all the medical discussions and lessons they had had over the years, he had never heard of a fever flush traveling from the face. This one looked raised, though, and he frowned in thought. Why was Watson developing a rash? Neither the chloral hydrate nor any illness he knew caused that as an initial symptom, and so quickly.

The last book was newest, released just the year before and containing many lesser-known ailments and their experimental treatments, as well as several warnings to the effect of following such treatments with discretion. He paged through it, flipping back and forth from the index and glancing up every few minutes to make sure Watson was still stable.

Finally, he found something. Upon searching for a rash, the index had directed him to the section on a recent discovery referred to as ‘allergic reactions,’ and there, in a list of potential allergy symptoms nearly a dozen long, was ‘slow/shallow breathing’ and ‘rash.’

He cursed himself. His friend wasn’t getting sick from treating patients; something was wrong because of _Holmes_.

Shoving that aside for the moment—giving into the guilt choking him would do nothing for his friend—he scanned through the frighteningly short list of remedies to help with an allergic reaction. Most simply recommended treating the symptoms and monitoring. There was one line suggesting a dose of ‘ephedrine,’ an apparently new medicine of which Holmes had never heard, but with nothing specifying what a typical dose was, there was no use in obtaining some. His breath caught in his throat when he read further down the list of possible symptoms and effects: ‘…Some patients develop extreme breathing issues, which are the most common, but not the only observed, cause of death.’

A ball of lead landed in his chest. This…allergic reaction could rob him of his dearest friend, and it would be completely his own fault.

He was frantically trying to find something more than just monitoring the shortness of breath when Watson stirred, his breathing easing marginally with consciousness. Holmes quickly set the book aside.

“Watson? Can you hear me?”

Watson’s eyes opened but never focused, glancing blankly around the room.

“Watson?” He picked up the doctor’s limp hand, squeezing it between his own. “Watson, answer me.”

Watson’s confused gaze stared through Holmes, either not recognizing him or not seeing him.

“Where—?” The question was nearly inaudible. “Who—?”

“Watson? You are in Baker Street.” Watson’s gaze remained blank. “Can you understand me? Answer me, Watson!”

Watson looked around the room a moment longer before trying to get up. Holmes held him down, and Watson struggled for a few moments, trying to throw off Holmes’ hands holding him firmly to the settee. His confused murmuring grew louder, asking where he was and who had attacked them. These questions quickly changed to asking where Holmes was and if he was alright, the doctor apparently assuming that if he had been attacked, then Holmes had as well.

Holmes swallowed thickly, holding himself together just as firmly as he held the doctor down. The guilt ate at him. This was _his_ fault. He had caused exactly what he had been trying to prevent.

If Watson got much worse, Holmes would have to call Anstruther. He balked at calling in one of Watson’s colleagues for something like this, but he would not let his pride interfere with Watson’s health. Watson himself stayed his hand for the moment, however. The doctor had been griping just a few days before about the elderly doctor’s unwillingness to learn about the newer discoveries, both illnesses and treatments. According to Watson, Holmes knew more about many of the newer discoveries than Anstruther did, which meant that even if Holmes called him in for a consultation, there was a substantial chance Anstruther would be unable to help.

Watson settled back down after a few minutes, and his eyes closed, falling back to sleep and quickly sinking back into the labored breathing that so worried Holmes.

Holmes turned back to his research, but every page he read about shortness of breath only suggested propping the person up and monitoring them.

Remembering that Watson’s breathing had eased when he woke, Holmes got the ammonia tablets from Watson’s medical bag and waved one under his friend's nose. Even with the tablet at arms’ length, Holmes could smell it strongly, but Watson never stirred. His breathing remained heavy and slow.

With nothing to do but monitor and wait it out, Holmes called down to Mrs. Hudson that supper would not be needed and settled into his chair, which he dragged closer to the settee.

Mrs. Hudson entered the room a minute later, however. She had evidently begun cooking earlier than usual, perhaps hoping to give the doctor time to eat.

“You need to eat, Mr. Holmes,” she chided him, carrying a tray to the table and never glancing at Holmes or the settee, “and the doctor certainly does! He is still here, is he not? I never saw him leave.”

Holmes was checking Watson’s pulse and breathing, reassuring himself that there had been no change, and did not immediately answer.

“Mr. Holmes?”

“Watson will not be eating,” Holmes replied distractedly, busying himself now with flipping through the textbooks again, hoping to find something, anything that would help, “and I am not hungry.”

“Will not be eating?” Mrs. Hudson repeated, turning around. “Why would—oh, dear.” Worry crossed her face as she spotted Watson stretched out on the settee. “Is he sick? Should I call a doctor?”

Holmes turned away, hiding both his guilt and his uncertainty. “I do not think so, Mrs. Hudson. His textbook merely says to wait it out.”

“Wait what out? What is wrong with him?”

He ignored her, paging through a different book while one hand monitored Watson’s pulse. How could he admit that he might have killed his dearest friend? Watson had involuntarily tested his experiments many times before and had always forgiven him, but none of them had ever done this. The worst thing any of his experiments had ever done had been the one that removed Watson’s sense of taste for a day, and that had been an expected outcome in retaliation for an April Fool’s prank. None of them had ever put him in danger. Holmes never _would_ put Watson in danger.

“Mr. Holmes?” The warning in her voice required an answer, but he refused to give her the one for which she was searching.

“I will let you know if he worsens. For now, that is all we can do. He would tell you the same thing if he were awake.”

Her huff contained equal parts worry and frustration, but she left the room, and Holmes began paging through any of his own textbooks pertaining to anything medical.

Time passed slowly. The hours seemed to tick by at glacial speed as Holmes rotated among checking on Watson—still stable—searching through their books again—nothing new—and pacing in front of the fireplace.

Watson roused thrice more, just as confused. His hoarse murmurings asked where he was, where Holmes was, what had happened, and whether it was his shift yet. Each time, Holmes prevented him from rising from the settee and, once, managed to get him to sip some water.

After writing out a note to Anstruther simply to have it ready should he be forced to call in the other doctor, Holmes continued pacing, his guilt feeding off his worry and taking over his thoughts. Mrs. Hudson tried once more after supper to get an answer about Watson, but by then he was too far into his ruminations to even be aware of her presence. With a worried glance at the doctor, she took herself off to bed.

There was no such rest for Holmes. He paced the night away, chasing his worry around in circles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone interested, the symptoms Watson displays are those of a few rare but observed side effects of chloral hydrate compounded by a mild allergic reaction.


	3. Chapter 3

Finally, several hours after dawn, when Holmes’ steadily increasing worry was so great he was beginning to feel sick himself, a small noise drew his attention from his frantic pacing.

Dropping into his chair and nearly holding his breath, he watched as Watson stirred, then blinked his eyes open.

“Watson?” he said quietly.

For one worriedly long moment, Watson stared blankly. Then, his gaze slid over to focus on Holmes.

“Watson, can you hear me?”

Watson’s brow furrowed in thought, and Holmes’ worry skyrocketed. Would Watson ever wake up for real?

“Watson, say something. Can you understand me?”

Slowly, Watson nodded. “Yes,” he answered, his voice barely more than a whisper. Holmes breathed a sigh of relief.

“Do you know where you are?” Holmes poured a glass of water from the pitcher behind him and was glad to see Watson’s hand was steady enough to hold it himself.

“Baker Street,” was the slow reply, his voice stronger after a few sips. “Holmes, what happened?” He tried to sit up fully and winced. “Why do I feel—” His eyes widened.

“Like you have been drugged?” Holmes finished. “Because you have.”

Holmes looked away, unable to hold his friend’s gaze with the dread filling him. Watson had every right to be angry. Holmes had attempted to make him rest and instead could have killed him. The warmth of the room did nothing to prevent the shiver that ran down his back.

Watson managed to sit up, though he nearly collapsed back against the settee before Holmes stacked more pillows behind him. He coughed, then rubbed his head, obviously fighting to think through a pounding headache. “You gave me chloral hydrate, didn’t you?”

Holmes nodded. Laudanum had to be prescribed, but anyone could get chloral hydrate.

Realization crossed Watson’s face. “My patients! What time is it?”

“Anstruther did your rounds,” Holmes quickly replied.

Watson relaxed a bit at the reassurance that his patients had been tended to, but he almost immediately tensed again when he saw the time on the mantle clock.

“Holmes.” Watson’s tone had an edge of anger to it, and Holmes braced himself. “Do tell me why you knocked me out for an entire _day_.”

“That was most unintentional.” He barely managed to keep his voice steady, and Watson stared, his anger growing.

“What do you mean, unintentional?! How do you _unintentionally_ knock me out for an entire day?! I know you know the dosages as well as I do. With how many medical discussions and lessons we have had over the years, you know nearly as much about _medicine_ as I do. Did you try another experiment on me? You knew I had patients to see!”

Watson saw the flinch Holmes nearly succeeded in hiding, and his anger began to mix with worry and confusion. Holmes had always been confident, self-assured, and sometimes even arrogant after using Watson in an experiment, even when faced with Watson’s anger. Now, he was pale and shaky, almost sickly looking, as if he should be the one struggling to sit up on the settee instead of Watson.

Holmes got himself under control after a long moment. “The dose I gave you should have worn off after three hours, but you never moved. Your breathing slowed, a rash spread over your face and neck, and I couldn’t wake you. I thought—” The possibilities he had been ruminating all night took over his thoughts, and he put his face his hands, trying to hide how they shook with fine tremors.

Watson sat in silence. Those were not the symptoms of an overdose, but neither were they typical side effects, and if Holmes had not been experimenting…

He looked around the room, seeing his medical texts spread over the floor. The only one he could read was open to a page describing a new discovery wherein someone’s body attacked something that was harmless or even helpful. The doctor who had discovered it had toyed with the name ‘allergy.’

“Holmes, you could not have known I would have such a reaction to a common sleep aid. Especially since _I_ didn’t know. I have never taken chloral hydrate before.”

Holmes kept his face in his palms, the guilt that had been eating at him all night coming to the fore now that Watson was awake.

“Holmes.” Watson’s building frustration crept into his voice. “Holmes, look at me.”

Slowly, the detective’s guilt-ridden gaze met Watson’s.

“You are not a mind-reader, Holmes, no matter _what_ you try to convince the Yarders.” Watson was heartened to see Holmes’ mouth twitch in a smile that never escaped. “There was no way for you to know I would prove allergic to a common sleep aid when I didn’t know, myself. Allergies are so new that this book,” he tapped the open text next to him, ignoring how slightly sluggish coordination nearly made him miss, “is one of a scant few theories on a subject only broached in earnest in the last few years.”

Watson could see that his friend was not fully convinced, and he sighed. If he read the detective accurately, it would take a while to convince him that he was not at fault. This could be a very long next few days.

He looked around the room, finally spotting the breakfast Mrs. Hudson had left on the table and Holmes had left untouched. He pushed himself to his feet, intending to see if anything was still edible after so many hours.

A wave of dizziness overtook him, and his vision darkened. Holmes lurched to his own feet just in time to again prevent the doctor from crumpling to the ground.

“Watson?!”

There was no answer, and Holmes eased him back onto the settee. He was about to bellow for Mrs. Hudson to go for Anstruther when Watson stirred.

“Watson?”

“’M fine, Holmes.” Watson’s response was clear, if a little slower than usual and muffled from having his head down to rub his temples. “Just stood up too fast.”

“Then don’t stand up.” Holmes’ voice was tense, not quite able to hide the panic that had shot through him when Watson had collapsed again. “What were you going for?”

Watson glanced towards the table, sitting up as the headache faded back to manageable levels, though the change in position made him cough again. “Is anything over there still edible?”

“Stay there. I will find something.”

Watson sank back into the settee and tried not to display his heavy fatigue as Holmes put some food on a plate.

“You need to eat, too, Holmes,” he said when the detective handed him a plate holding a little of nearly everything on the table.

“Go ahead. I am not hungry.”

“Holmes, I doubt you’ve eaten since breakfast yesterday. Eat something, anything. I’m too tired to argue with you.”

“If you are too tired to argue, then don’t try. Just eat.”

Watson frowned, and an idea sparked. With a thoughtful glance between Holmes and the plate, he set the food aside.

“Watson?”

He leaned back and closed his eyes, barely succeeding in wiping his expression.

“You are hungry. Why are you not eating?”

Watson kept his eyes closed, doing his best to feign disgruntlement and annoyance. “The last time I ate something you didn’t, I woke up a day later. I can wait until lunch.”

Silence stretched for a long moment, and Watson dared to crack an eye open. Holmes was staring at him, the guilt still on his face now warring with something Watson couldn’t name. Whatever it was, it wasn’t hurt, so he settled down into the cushions, as if planning to sleep until Mrs. Hudson brought up a lunch with which he knew Holmes had not tampered.

A moment later, Holmes got up and walked towards the table, coming back with huff. The scent of bacon wafted closer, and Watson opened his eyes as Holmes popped a piece of bacon in his mouth.

He sat up, not bothering to hide the mischievous grin. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

On hearing the grin in his tone, Holmes paused before taking another bite, looking over as Watson pulled the plate closer.

“You—” His question broke off, apparently shocked that Watson had managed to pull one over on him.

“So much for my being unable to act,” he said through his grin. The food was edible, for all that it was cold. Or perhaps he was just hungry. He took another bite.

Holmes didn’t reply, but Watson’s smile widened as the guilt was replaced with irritation. Much better. A guilt-ridden Holmes could stew for days, as Watson had discovered the last time he had been injured on a case. Hopefully, they could avoid that this time. His smile turned into more of a smirk when Holmes went back to the table thrice more, the single piece of bacon evidently sparking his appetite.

As Watson slowly ate, Holmes moved around the room, closing and placing the textbooks on Watson’s desk as he hid his frequent glances. The doctor’s coordination issues were slowly improving, but he still seemed sluggish, and a worry over permanent damage entered his thoughts.

“I’m just tired, Holmes,” Watson said when he caught one of these glances. Apparently, he hadn’t been hiding his fatigue as well as he thought. “Further down in that textbook, you’ll read fatigue is sometimes seen after such an intense reaction. Stop beating yourself up over something you could not control.”

Holmes muttered something about how he should have known, and Watson barely refrained from rolling his eyes at the detective’s stubbornness.

“How many times do I have to tell you? There was no way you _could_ have known. Now, quit pacing before you wear a hole in the carpet.”

“But—”

Finished eating, Watson dropped his head against the back of the settee, wishing Holmes would listen so he could sleep through the worst of his pounding headache. Holmes expected him to be mad, and maybe he should be, but he wasn’t. Not this time. Holmes hadn’t experimented on him again, and there was no way he could have expected his misdirected attempt at forcing Watson to slow down to backfire so spectacularly.

“Stop beating yourself up about it.” Holmes looked at him, the guilt back now that the brief irritation at Watson’s mischief had faded, and Watson sighed. “Just promise me something, alright?”

Holmes nodded hesitantly.

“Don’t dose me with chloral hydrate again, there’s a good chap?”

The surprise in Holmes’ gaze at the gentle teasing finally began pushing away the guilt, and Watson let his eyes drift closed, satisfied. Holmes may not have forgiven himself, yet, no matter how arrogant he unintentionally was in thinking he should have known, but at least Watson had finally gotten across that _he_ was not angry. They could work out the rest after Watson slept off the remainder of the drug’s effects.

He felt Holmes readjust the pillows so he could lie more or less flat, then a hand grabbed his wrist, tabbing his pulse. He relaxed into the cushions as the heavy fatigue took over. His last waking thought was a hope that Holmes had not told Anstruther that he was unable to work due to a common sleep aid. He had no wish to discover what the stubborn older doctor would say to _that_ revelation.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is greatly appreciated on all my stories :)


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